It was in my youth that I first read Killer Fiction; this was in 1989 and back then I dismissed it as another saccharine true-crime book. Anne Rule, Max Haines, Harold Schechter (true-crime's triumvirate of tedium) and those of their ilk take exciting narratives and pervert them into an end of monotony and police-procedure stupefaction. Now more than a decade later I have matured enough to understand the severity of G.J. Schaefer's text. His stories, which played a pivotal role in his conviction for two murders take you inside the mind of a sociopathic misogynist. Schaefer, a former police officer, ardently defends his work as fiction. However, the scenarios depicted in his stories (and an assortment of crude drawings) eerily mirror the murders he committed. His stories are graphic depictions of torture, humiliation and death and were enough to help convict him of two murders, but he is suspected of many more. Again Colin Wilson introduces the book (see: The Making Of A Serial Killer) and again regurgitates his theory of demonic possession. Add to which a confession from Wilson that he has not bothered to read the book before penning it's introduction makes it obvious that he should not be allowed to write ever again. Ever. Apparently all serial killers, in Wilson's mind, are innocent people possessed by a malignant evil. And again Sondra London storms in waving the great banner of the serial killer fan-club and nodding affirmative to Wilson's hypothesis. The first part of the book allows the self-proclaimed experts to wax idiotic over the reasons behind Schaefer's penchant for strangulation and murder. They attribute a liturgy of diagnoses: schizophrenia, sociopathology and possession by evil; all of the given postulations are ridiculous as neither London nor Wilson are learned in psychiatry or ecclesiastic studies. The fun really begins in the second section of Killer Fiction. These are unabridged stories, penned by Schaefer with the blood of his victims. These are the stories used in his conviction - as well as newer stories written from his prison. The text is a macabre journal, confession and fetish totem. It's vulgar. It's violent pornography. It's dirty. And it's real. And that's why we love it. In each story the protagonist/Schaefer is a cocky alpha-male on the prowl for women to kill. Schaefer hates the women. BAD. He figures himself a cosmic officer doling out violent karmic vengeance upon all the bitches "who is only gettin' what they deserve." Each story is indicative of not only the ex-cop's disgust of women, but as importantly his disgust in himself. His protagonists are everything that he was not: strong, handsome, confident and able to melt the heart of the coolest ice-bitch in the bar. Killer Fiction treats us to a plethora of vulgar fantasies revolving around domination, rape, strangulation, and lets not forget coprophilia! And of course there's uh...death. Schaefer is not satisfied until the women in his story subjugate to his will. Only then do they truly deserve to die. His decently scribed prose unearth the sickening reality of the serial killer; they are not brilliantly suave lost souls performing a community service by strengthening the human gene pool (nor are they possessed by ooga booga's), but angry, impetuous men-children bent on the destruction of others and in due course, themselves. All I need to say is: